Monday, March 18, 2013

An Automated Death was published March 13th, 2013. And I thought I'd post an except from the book for those who are interested. The story has two endings. One dark and one light. I've published the story with them both.

Here's the excerpt:

Automaton: A
non-electronic machine that mimics the movements of an animal or a human.A nineteenth century robot.

London,
England, 1863

Rain clouds rolled in over
London, bringing with them a gray tinged afternoon light that struggled to penetrate
the shop’s plate glass windows. Alan Cartwright turned up the wick on the oil
lamp and moved it closer to the mechanism he worked on. Despite the gas lamps
lining the interior walls, working on the small fittings of the automaton
required additional light. The wooden clock cabinets and music boxes he built
gleamed in the warm glow, their brass fittings sparkling gold. The smell of
freshly cut wood and machine oil hung in the air.

“What comes next, Papa?” Brenton
asked.

Alan smiled at his eight-year-old
son’s interest in the automaton. Since his mother’s death two months before, the
boy had been withdrawn and shown little interest in anything but his drawings. In
the hope of distracting Brenton from his grief, Alan had decided to finish the
machine. They worked on it together each afternoon after school.

“Next we attach the
cylinders,” Alan explained. “The pins in them designate the movements for the
automaton’s arm and hand.” He popped the large brass cylinder with its circular
cams into place. “Why don’t you do this one?” He offered Brenton the long tube.

Too short to reach into
the framed box that held the automaton’s parts, Brenton stepped upon a stool, and
taking the heavy cylinder in hand, laid it into the side axles.

“Good,” Alan leaned over
the contraption and tapped on the lock rings that secured the pieces to the
gears and springs that would drive it.

He glanced up to see Brenton
straightening the wooden puppet’s shirt. The body of the machine, hidden by the
shirt, was fashioned from thin strips of brass. Heavier brass fixtures, when
attached to the cylinder in the base and to its spring-driven motor, would move
the shoulder and arm and allow it to draw.

Brenton’s dark brows drew
together in a frown, and his lips puckered in thought. “He looks like me,
Papa.”

“I suppose he does a bit.”
His son was the most important person in his life. Who else’s face would he
have given the automaton?

Brenton touched the puppet’s
small wooden writing desk . “Will he draw much better than I do?” Brenton asked
with a downward tilt to his lips.

In truth, Brenton was a
gifted child. His teacher had commented that, in her opinion, he was drawing as
well as or better than some of the artists whose work she’d seen. She was in
awe of his talent, as was Alan.

“No. I’ve patterned what
he draws from your work, Brenton. The cams I’ve created will guide his hand to
copy your drawings. And he’ll only be able to draw four pictures. You’ll be
able to draw hundreds.”

The frown clouding Brenton’s
face cleared, and he smiled. “I want to be a famous artist when I grow up.”

Alan’s throat tightened. Did
the resurgence of his son’s hopes for the future signal he was setting aside some
of his grief? He hoped so. He laid a hand on Brenton’s frail shoulder. “Aye, so
you’ve told me. If an artist is what you wish to be, and you work hard, you
will be the most famous artist London has ever known.”

Brenton’s expression was
earnest. “I will work very hard.”

Alan gave his shoulder a gentle
squeeze. “You already do. If you sweep up the sawdust at the back of the shop,
we’ll walk down the street to Cotter’s for a hard candy when I’m finished
here.”

Brenton’s smile broke
forth. “Excellent! I’ll do it now.”

A smile lingered on Alan’s
face as he made some adjustments to the position of the larger of two
cylinders. He studied the brass fittings he had created for the machine. It
represented some of his best work. He was certain the piece, if it worked,
would sell as a novelty to a rich patron. But it would sadden him to see it go.
After all the time-consuming work he’d poured into it, the temptation to keep
it was strong. But the bills which had accumulated during Arietta’s brief
illness, and her funeral, weighed upon his mind. He had to do what was best for
Brenton, no matter the cost to himself.

He rested his hand atop
the automaton’s head. The puppet’s
dark hair was incised into the wood and painted with streaks of dark brown with
a hint of red. The pale blue eyes stared downward at an angle, as though
looking at something on the table. Alan had designed it so it would appear that
the puppet was looking at the drawing it was creating. The gears inside the
body would move the arm and head so it would not only look like the little boy
was drawing, but would also create a reproduction of one of Brenton’s works.

It had been Arietta’s idea
to make the machine’s face a likeness of Brenton’s. She’d called it a tribute
to their son. The sale of the piece was to fund his future. And now it would go
to pay for the end of hers.

A wave of grief rolled
over Alan, so intense his knees threatened to buckle. Tears burned his eyes,
and he squeezed his lids closed in an attempt to stave them off. At the sound
of Brenton’s return, he bent over the automaton for one last check of the day’s
work and to give himself time to regain his composure.

“I’m finished, Papa.”

With an effort, Alan beat
back his grief and forced a smile as he turned to face Brenton. “Good. We must
hurry and get your treat before the rain starts. Go upstairs and get your coat.”
As the boy ran upstairs, Alan strode down the center aisle between the wooden
tables holding clocks in need of repair, and music boxes waiting for their last
layer of stain. He folded down the sleeves of his shirt and fastened the cuffs,
then, lifting his coat from a peg by his desk, slipped it on. He smiled at the
sound of Brenton’s pounding steps overhead. He was such an easy child to please.
And so very bright.

Alan locked the shop door
behind them and turned to face the busy thoroughfare of Oxford Street. The wind
whipped between the buildings, kicking up dirt and carrying with it the blended
smells of fresh baked bread from a nearby bakery and horse manure. The wide,
cobbled street was congested with buggies and coaches, steam-powered buses and
phaetons conveying their passengers home before the storm. Dark gray clouds
reflected in the plate glass windows of the surrounding shops, as though the
storm had taken root at street level. Alan’s grasp on Brenton’s hand tightened.

Cotter’s Confections
waited at the end of the block. Eager to be there, Brenton skipped beside him.
“I think I will get some sugarplums, Papa. I will share them with you.”

“Why thank you. That would
be kind of you,” Alan said with a laugh.

“Out of the way!” A shout
came from just behind them.

Alan swiveled to look over
his shoulder. The huge shape of a pale gray horse filled his vision. The animal
struck him chest-to-chest, spinning him around. His head struck the sharp edge
of a brick window facing. He cried out and fell to his hands and knees. The
large, highly polished wheels of a buggy rolled past his face.

Stunned, he lay still, his
head throbbing. “Brenton?” Alan staggered to his feet and braced a hand upon
the wall as the world tipped and whirled. Blackness threatened to overtake him,
and he shook his head. When his vision cleared, he saw the small form that lay
crumpled face-down just beside him on the sidewalk.

“Brenton!” Fear chocked
him, strangling his cry to a whisper. He stumbled forward and fell to his knees
next to his son. Grasping his shoulder, he eased the boy onto his back. Blood
colored his son’s lips with scarlet and ran in thin rivulets from his nose and
ears. Alan placed his hand on the little chest and, feeling no movement,
pressed an ear to his torso. The brittle thrust of broken bones jabbed against
his cheek. Brenton’s heart lay still and silent.

Agony poured through Alan,
stealing his breath, as though the horse’s hooves had pulverized his heart to
mash. “Brenton!” The cry burst from him and climbed to a high-pitched wail. He
gathered his son’s body close and rocked, his pain too much to contain.

The sky opened up in a
torrent. And the rain blended with the tears that streamed unheeded down Alan
Cartwright’s face.

After
his wife’s death, clockmaker Alan Cartwright focuses all his energy on his work
and his eight-year-old son, Brenton. Father and son bond by building a lifelike
automaton, designed to resemble Brenton in looks and talent: The boy is an
extraordinary artist. Before the automaton is finished, Brenton is run over and
killed by a carriage driven bySir William Tyndale, a decorated
soldier and knight who lost his own wife and son during service in India. The
accident leads to strange occurrences and an unholy obsession.

The
automaton comes to life, communicating with Alan through written messages and drawings of the
past and the future. Alan is convinced Brenton’s spirit possesses the machine
and refuses to sell it. Sir Tyndale sees the likeness of his own dead son in
the device and is determined to have it by any means. Driven by grief and
fatherly love, the two men are set on a collision course with the soul of a young boy trapped
between them, and Brenton's reasons for possessing the automaton a mystery to them
both.

Thursday, March 7, 2013

Sometimes we writers like to have inspiration when we write. And I love to find the guys who will be on my covers and keep a picture of them on my desktop. We'll recently I found Flash. The hero in my next SEAL TEAM Heartbreaker novel Breaking Away And I have to tell you this guy is something special. I can't wait to see what my cover artist Tracy Stewart will do with this image. But I know she'll make it into something special for me. Until she does, I'll keep him on my desktop and let him help me write the story.

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About Me

Hi:
I'm Teresa Reasor. I'm a retired art teacher, college instructor and now a FULL TIME writer!! I've been published since 2007. My Muse's Musings is dedicated all my writing related endeavors. Books, book signings, some of the research I've been doing for my books and my adventures. I hope you enjoy my blog